Trade

A poem by John Le Gay Brereton

Where yonder ruddy-misted star
Is tumbling down the placid sky
The people’s aims were not so high
As our heroic motives are;
To love and trust they set a bar,
And “Profit” was their only cry;
They paid but little heed how nigh
Came thundering the iron car.

It rushed upon them and it passed
Leaving a ghost of pain and fear
To haunt the ruin it had made.
But surely they have learnt at last?
What far faint murmur can we hear
Of frantic howling? Listen! . . . “TRADE.”